#to draw every painting it has with ballpoint pen…I work on it before the sun sets🥹

[myokk]

My drawing gremlin days are coming back so here is some of the art I’ve done this last week and a half♥️♥️♥️ LOT of pencil, ballpoint pen, and some digital art WIPs when it gets dark/im on the train🫶

[igirisuhito]

Title: Writing down all the things gone wrong Relationship(s): Komaeda Nagito/Matsuda Yasuke Rating: Teen Summary: Upon receiving a gift from Hinata, Komaeda attempts to learn more about a student who once went to Hope's Peak academy. After a strange nightmare, he contemplates the trustworthiness of his memory. Trigger Warnings: Childhood trauma, Religious discussion (I guess?), Doctor/Patient, Medical angst, regular angst, Treatment refusal, Dementia Notes: Happy birthday Komaeda. I hope you like suffering. 

[Ao3 Link]

『••✎••』

"Hey uh, do you want this?"

Hinata's hand outstretches towards him, holding a thin paperback book between calloused fingers. It appears to be a school notebook; worn, ragged, really in a complete state of disrepair. The once white cover was now a full grey, bearing smudged writing and barely recognisable symbols. If they were symbols from any other organisation, Komaeda probably wouldn't have recognised them and asked why Hinata thought to insult him with this utter piece of trash.

"I know you like Hope's Peak memorabilia, right? This isn't really memorabilia, per say, but…" As he rambles away to himself, Hinata starts to look more and more awkward. Is he embarrassed? Ah, who wouldn't be humiliated, being seen giving such a thoughtful gift to Komaeda in an act of pity.

Before Hinata can try and make some other excuse, Komaeda reaches out, pale digits barely passing over the messy kanji. "Ry…ko… Oto…'s…"

He has to pause, squinting hard at the words. He wonders if there's a chance he's reading it wrong. "Memory notebook? Like a diary?"

Komaeda takes the notebook into his hands, accepting the gift. However, he can't suppress the grin that crosses his face as he looks back up at Hinata, the desire to tease the other just too tempting to resist. "Oh my Hinata-kun… why are you walking around with a girl's diary?"

"I-I got it from the Monomono machine, okay?!" He flushes bright red, beginning to stammer as he shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I-It could be a guy's!"

Doubtful, Komaeda flicks the crinkled pages open, carefully separating each one with his fingers. The way the ink is washed out on every page reminds him of when you would accidentally put a receipt through the wash, full of barely comprehensible writing and doodles. An overuse of love hearts and sparkles, however, proves his theory correct.

"Even if you didn't get it from somewhere weird... I'm not sure if it's really okay for me to accept this!" Sucking in a deep breath, Komaeda grips his elbows in order to calm himself. "There must be some incredibly bad luck waiting for me! For Hinata-kun to go out of his way to give me something so amazing… haha, I feel a little tingly just thinking about it!"

"Seriously, it's no big deal," it seems as though Hinata's face is just getting hotter, he must be truly embarrassed by how much of a fuss Komaeda is making over it. "Just take it, okay? We had a good time today."

"Well, thank you, Hinata-kun. It makes me unbearably happy that you would give me a gift like this!" Smile stretching impossibly wide, Komaeda holds the notebook close to his chest, careful not to crush it.

"Go home, Komaeda."

With an aggressive nod, he says his farewells, "Well then, I'll see you tomorrow, Hinata-kun."

And with that, Hinata turns away, already running off down the beach. He's sprinting like he's trying to escape something, though it wouldn't surprise Komaeda if he was just trying to run away from any possibility of them speaking again. Unfortunately for Hinata, their time on this island isn't nearly over, and he would have to face Komaeda once again tomorrow in Jabberwock Park.

A soft sigh slips past his lips with the thought. He glances towards the horizon, the glowing sea of orange as waves gently roll up on the shoreline. The sun is setting on another perfect day. A cool breeze plays at the strands of Komaeda's hair, knocking it into his eyes. He brings a hand to his face, tucking the loose white locks behind one ear as he glances back down towards the notebook in his hands.

"Memory notebook, huh?"

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Komaeda sits himself down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, placing his gift from Hinata at his side. It has been an unbearably long day, between spending the morning working to collect resources and the afternoon making sandcastles with Hinata, he was worn to the bone.

He leans down to undo the zips on his boots before kicking them off. As he wiggles his toes, he is overcome by the unpleasant sensation of sand sticking between them. With a groan, he begrudgingly pulls off his socks too, all too aware of the sound of the grains hitting the floorboard as he does. A mess to deal with later.

Quickly dusting off his feet, then brings them up onto the bed with him, laying back on the covers. An ache immediately begins to settle in his muscles, and a yawn forces its way out of his mouth. With the warm heat of the evening, it feels as though he could fall asleep right here and now. As pleasant as that would be, he has yet to properly examine Hinata's gift. He'd been brimming with anxious excitement to look at it the whole walk back to his cabin.

Bringing the notebook up to his side, he lays his head against the pillow and flicks it open. The first page is filled with rushed writing done in black pen, ink that has since been washed away. If he squints hard enough, he can just barely make out the characters, fill in some blanks. This is definitely a notebook once belonging to somebody going to Hope's Peak Academy.

How exciting!

He turns the page. There's a two page spread of nothing but blurry sketches and doodles, and from what he can tell, they're incredibly well done. The artist obviously had quite the knack for reproducing realistic details, honing in on fine points such as the eyes and lips.

Carefully flicking to the next page, he finds more hastily scribbled notes and drawings. It's unusual, the subject is the same in almost every occasion, and with each depiction Komaeda finds himself starting to build a better image of that person in his head.

The ballpoint scribbles illustrate a young Japanese man, bearing long shoulder length hair and meticulously detailed eyelashes. His lips are thin, often turned down in a frown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The owner of the diary was very clearly infatuated with him, and he could understand why. The man was naturally gorgeous even with such a pouty face.

And somehow, he felt strikingly familiar.

Komaeda turns through a few more pages, carefully poring over the illegible kanji and fuzzy details. No matter how hard he squints, he just can't understand what the words read, as though the information is purposefully taunting him, hanging just out of reach. With a sigh, he closes the notebook and allows his eyelids to flicker shut.

"How despairing."

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"Your dementia is progressing quickly." Crossing one leg over the other, the doctor spun around in his chair to face Komaeda.

His demeanour was… laid-back. Much too laid back for a doctor. And mean, harsh, unnecessarily cruel. It was clear on his face that he thought Komaeda was the most revolting thing he'd seen all day, and he was probably right.

"Ah, such is fate for someone as worthless as me. Perhaps I really am meant to die." He laughed softly to himself, gazing down at his lap.

"Shut up," the doctor hissed. "Are you taking your medication?"

Komaeda stared out the window, wordless in his thoughts. The sunlight streaming through the glass felt warm on his skin, unlike the chill of metal on the medical bed beneath him. It was a lovely day brimming with hope, a day he would have liked to be out there enjoying.

"It's a nice day isn't it, M̧̩̹̗͕̮̼̆̋͑a̦̮̟̠̓͜ť̇҉̺̙s̪̦̟̋ͤ̽͗͜ŭ̺͉̖̫͍̯̪ͯ̐͠d̷̬̤̹̩̱̫̻̺͊a̵̯͙͖̙̩͇͂͛̓̊-kun?"

"Huh?" The doctor blinked, before looking up from his clipboard and out the window. "What are you talking about? Answer the damn question."

He remained silent, continuing to gaze out the window at the campus below. There were students socialising, exercising, running to class. Blurs of smiling faces amongst a sea of brown, each student filled with a sense of pride. The air is filled with distant laughter and chatter. It's too quiet in the room.

"Why don't you wear the Hope's Peak Uniform?"

There was a loud clatter as the doctor's clipboard hit the floor. Before Komaeda can react, (as if he was going to), he's risen to his feet and practically pounced on the boy. The doctor's pale hands reached for his chest, securing a handful of his sweater. A soft gasp escaped his lips, being pulled forward until he came nose to nose with the doctor, warm erratic breaths coming short and fast on his lips.

His face was difficult to see when he was on the other side of the room, but Komaeda realised that distance was not the issue. Even when he was so close the details were hazy, Komaeda only barely being able to make a deep frown etched beneath his dark bangs. Every time he tried to take in more details, it was as though he were looking too closely at a painting, unable to take in the full image beyond a few brush strokes.

"I knew it. Of course you wouldn't take them." He spit, teeth bared and eyebrows furrowed. "You just think your fucking luck is going to save you, that this is all some big plan for 'hope'."

The doctor let go, allowing Komaeda to slump back into his chair. He looked distressed, unreasonably so to the point of unprofessionalism. The doctor swept back his hair, giving Komaeda a glimpse of glaring blue eyes before he pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.

Komaeda couldn't help but chuckle to himself. And before he knew it, he was laughing. Laughing raucously, in a way that made his whole body shake with dread, his mind spin with despair. His fingers wound their way to his scalp and he gripped and pulled at his hair until he could see the doctor's horrified expression looking back at him.

"Hope?" The word dripped from his mouth like venom. "There is no hope in taking that. The disease is incurable! There's no point in messing with that fact! What hope is there in waking up every day sick as a diseased dog just so I can tack a few extra years of suffering onto my lifespan? Do you want me to suffer, is that it? Does the Ultimate Neurologist truly believe he can play God? That you can cure a terminal illness? It's embarrassing, you truly don't know when to draw the line, to give up on a piece of human garbage like-!"

"What the fuck would you know about God, you demented freak?!"

Komaeda bit his tongue, a sickening grin forming on his face.

"You think some God is going to sweep you away from this? There is no damn God!" The doctor near screams the words. "There's you, me, and a miserable little pile of pills. You're the one who refuses to see an expert, you're the one who insisted on seeing an 'Ultimate', and yet you refuse to do what you've been told. I don't know why I bother, shit, you can rot in that empty skull of yours for all I care."

By the time he was done with his rant, he'd fallen back into his chair, dejected, out of breath. Komaeda didn't miss the flush on his cheeks, the way his nails dug into his thighs. What a brash display of emotion.

"I never knew you felt so strongly about God, Matsuda-kun." Straightening out his sweater, Komaeda shot the other a wide smile. "I guess it makes sense, you are a man of science, after all."

The doctor did not raise his head, remaining in his hunched over position. He was shaking, fists scrunching the fabric of his pants as he tried to regain his composure, probably to stop himself from jumping across the room and choking Komaeda to death. He thought he would have deserved it at this point.

"Do you really not understand how privileged you are? Are you doing this just to mock me, to make me suffer? I shouldn't have expected any less from Komaeda fucking Nagito," his voice trembled and cracked. "Am I the incompetent one? Should I be coming to your dorm every night and forcing the damn things down your throat? I can't fucking listen to you, I can't stand you. Every time you look at me with that stupid fucking grin on your face it feels like you think this is all a joke. What if you do die? What do you think is gonna happen to the people who love and care about you?"

Komaeda opened his mouth to refute him, but quickly snapped it shut again when a scalpel zipped past his head, lodging itself in the wall behind him with a thwunk. The doctor had raised his head, arm poised with another scalpel in hand and eyes filled with deadly intent as he glared at Komaeda.

"Get the fuck out of my office you ugly bastard."

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Komaeda opens his eyes suddenly, silently.

It's no dramatic waking up from a nightmare, no shooting up out of bed with his lungs burning and chest heaving. Just a sudden realisation that he is awake and that he has been dreaming. Perhaps he was kicked out of Matsuda's office, but how would he know? It was just as possible that he'd risen to his feet and beaten him senseless.

…Matsuda?

It's a familiar name, but not one that belongs to anyone Komaeda knows. "Matsuda-kun. Matsuda… Hope's Peak?"

He mumbles to himself, attempting to make sense of the information thrown at him. They say dreams are pulled from your memories, so why would he have memories from Hope's Peak? Why would he have memories of a person he has never known?

"Matsuda… I called him the Ultimate Neurologist, didn't I?" He asks the question to the darkness of his room. "I wouldn't forget somebody like that, would I?"

Komaeda sits up, pushing his hair back as he brings a hand to his forehead. "Would I?"

Eyes drifting along the covers of his bed, he spots the memory notebook. "I wonder if I should start keeping one too," he chuckles.

[houseofvans]

ART SCHOOL | HYDEON (Brooklyn, NY)

Visual artist and designer Ian Fergurson aka HYDEON is known for his simple monochromatic black and white works, often featuring old gothic buildings, Colonial style witches, and eye catching installations and murals. Not only one thing, Ferguson was most recently employed as a silk screen printer an wallpaper company, until his works were purchased by a private collector in the summer of 2017, launching his art career.   We’re really excited to chat with Ian about his art journey, his works and processes, as well as a mural he completed on the 69th floor of 4 World Trade Building. 

Photographs courtesy of the artist. 

Can you tell folks a little about yourself? We’re always curious about artist handles, sometimes there is a good story behind it, just curious what’s the significance of @hydeon? My name is Ian Ferguson. I’m a visual artist and designer living and working in Brooklyn, NY. I work out of my home studio. I’ve been publishing my work under the name Hydeon for about 15 years now. The name Hydeon is partially derived from the avant-garde animated series Æon Flux which aired on MTV in the 90’s. Eon Flux became a nickname I had in Middle School. My friends at the time would call me Flox or Eon or both. Years later when I was in college studying graphic design In the early-mid 2000’s I wanted to have an alias to sign my work under as a way to create my own unique identity and branding. I used the Eon part from my nickname in middle school and added the Hyd part in front of it. It can be pronounced two different ways, It can be like “Hid-Ian”, or “Hide-Ian”. The idea is that my own name is hidden within the alias.

When did you first get into drawing, and what were you drawn too? How did your early interest evolve into something more? I grew up in a family of artists in San Diego, CA. I was born in 1985. My mom had me drawing very early before I could hold a pencil on my own. She would hold my hand with the pencil or brush and help me make drawings and paintings. I must have been 2 years old maybe when she started teaching me, I’m not entirely sure. My earliest memory of creative inspiration that really spoke to me was seeing the work of M.C. Escher. I was absolutely obsessed with his work as a child. One of my first ever art exhibits I ever saw was an M.C. Escher exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Art. All throughout my youth I was always making art. I was obsessed with drawing and how it would make me feel. It always seemed to calm me down and I was eventually able to discover a form of meditation through it. I grew up skateboarding as well, wearing Vans, hiking and going to the beach, classic Southern California activities. Through skateboarding my influences in art and music evolved. The drawings and paintings I grew up making would eventually evolve into designing posters for shows. I think thats where I got the initial start into my career. Everything seemed to stem from making the posters. My first ever art show was a group show on skateboard decks in 2003 at King Cassius Gallery in San Diego.

Having attended Art Institute of California, San Diego, what was your experience with art school, and what was your experience after art school as an artist? Did you find the transition difficult, challenging, easy, and/or just totally off the rails? My experience at AI-SD overall was positive. I met some amazing friends there and that was the best part of it. I studied graphic design so almost everything I did in college involved a computer. Once I figured out the Adobe programs I just wanted to get through school and do my own thing. 

My career transition after college was very textured and difficult. I had moved to Seattle in 2006 right after school to explore the mountains, forests, music, and art scene there. I was hoping to land a design job up there with my new degree, but It never really panned out and the school couldn’t really help much with jobs because I was out of state. I ended up working mostly at a thrift store and would just do art and music on the side. After several years in Seattle I had a crazy mental breakdown at the thrift store I was working at and shortly after that I got some help and was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I fled back to San Diego for a few months to get some sun and just chill out at home. During that period I worked at an art store in downtown San Diego for about 6 months. 

After that I felt a strong magnetic pull to move to Chicago and explore the architecture, art, and music scene there. I figured I would have more opportunity in a bigger city and I knew I wanted to live outside of California. I saved up money at the art store and moved to Chicago. I tried to get a design job there, but It wasn’t working out so I quickly ended up working as a full time cashier at a grocery store. I did that for a while until I completely burned out on the register and they fired me. I was able to get unemployment, so I took advantage of it and hustled my art as hard as a could with the time I had. After that I worked a weird retail shoe stocking job, worked at a fast food chain, and did bike messaging in the loop. I basically took whatever job I could get to support myself on a basic level and then just hustled my art and design stuff as much as possible on the side. I started doing allot of shows and after a while I had built up a little success in Chicago but It wasn’t until I moved to NYC in 2014 that everything really changed and I started having significant success with my work. 

Often times artists are not only ONE thing, each juggles art and or is making a real effort to hustle at it? How do you balance art and life? What is your other hustle and how does that factor into what you do? Good question. As I mentioned in the previous question I had many different types of jobs I would do to support myself so I could do my art. When I moved to NYC in 2014 I landed a job working as a silk screen printer for Flavor Paper, an amazing wallpaper company in collaboration with the Warhol foundation. This was the first real art job I’ve ever got and the best job I have ever had. I worked there for about two and a half years full time making hand silk screen wallpaper and then hustling my art on the side. 

It wasn’t until just this past summer of 2017 that I had a career breakthrough with my work. I sold a giant painting to a private collector in Washington D.C. that had discovered me on Instagram. This was the sale that changed everything for me. I was able to quit my job at Flavor Paper and work entirely for myself. I work every single day for myself now. It’s the most gratifying feeling. It feels more than a full time job, it’s a full time commitment and a lifestyle. I’m always working. Aside from doing drawings and paintings for gallery shows I do commission work involving anything from murals to branding design and illustration work. I’ve also been collaborating with Brazilian fashion brand 1994. and an NYC based fashion brand The Very Warm. Flavor Paper has also released my first wallpaper pattern “Brownstoner” which has been a great success.

How would you describe the black-and-white works you create? Amongst the various things you illustrate, buildings and old style victorian structures play a role. How did this come about? I became fascinated with old world gothic architecture and the victorian era around 2009 when I first left the west coast and visited Chicago and New York for the first time. Seeing the brownstones and old gothic buildings in both cities really impacted me in a significant way. I fell in love with these types of buildings. They have a romantic historical quality to them that makes me feel transported back in time to another world. I feel a deep connection of energy in them and it makes me feel good, its a beautiful feeling. I had never really seen buildings like this before I came out to these cities. I have always done black and white work, but started working exclusively in black and white about a year ago. I felt like I needed a break from color for a while to just focus on the simplicity of monochromatic work. I love the quality of black and white and the versatility of it. You can put a black and white piece in almost any home or environment and it will look good. Black and white doesn’t fight any other colors, its its own thing. I’ve recently been doing color work again and loving it, but will always keep the black and white pieces going.

Do you keep a sketchbook for ideas or do you find yourself just sitting down, hitting the paper off to the races, so to speak? Sometimes and it’s a little bit of both! I keep a few different sketchbooks of various sizes. I like to go to cafes and parks and chill and sketch out ideas when I have them. I ride my bike everywhere and find allot of inspiration while riding the bike or running. I get allot of inspiration from my environment and life experience so I like to wait for the inspiration to hit me and then act on it with the sketchbook. Often times I use basic computer printer paper to sketch out final ideas before they go to nice paper, canvas, or wood panel.

Who were some of your artistic influences? Some of my absolute favorite artists and influencers are: Marcel Dzama, Thomas Campbell, Tim Kinsella, Cleon Peterson, M.C. Escher, Mamma Anderson, Henry Darger, Ed Templeton, Toulouse Lautrec, Andrea Joyce Heimer, Pitseolak, Egon Schiele, Danny Fox, and More..

What are your top 5 art materials to work with? Faber-Castell PITT artist pens Ticonderoga HB #2 pencils Bic Black Ballpoint Pen Montana Paint markers OR Molotow Paint markers (both are great!) Golden Acrylics

You recently installed your work at 4 World Trade Center as well as created a mural in the East Village? How did this project come about? What was the best part of the overall experience? The World Trade Center mural happened through my good friend Joohee Park AKA Stickymonger. We both show at this gallery in the financial district of Manhattan called World Trade Gallery, which is a gallery affiliated with the WTC. 

The gallery had access to the 69th floor of 4 World Trade and asked a number of artists to do murals on the floor. Stickymonger was really the catalyst for me getting into the tower. She’s an amazing artist and a very good friend of mine. The experience working in the tower was absolutely amazing and beautiful. There were several nights where I got to work up there entirely alone on the 69th floor. It was just me and my music and jamming away on my mural. The experience was ethereal seeing the whole city glowing from above with 360 degree views. I felt like I was on top of the world and the mural  came out fantastic. I did a black and white architectural motif of New York City with the Hudson River as the floor and the Palisades on the other wall. 

My mural covered an entire corridor of the Woman’s bathroom. It was one of the only spaces left for a mural and no one wanted it, so I jumped on it! I loved the whole experience and everyone took good care of me throughout the process. I met some amazing people through that project, one of which was curator Joshua B. Geyer who eventually asked me to do the mural in the East Village which was apart of the Centre-Fuge Public Art Project.

What would your dream collaboration be like? Oh wow! I have allot of ideas for this one, but I would love to do a collaborative drawing with Marcel Dzama sometime.

What are your favorite Vans? The Sk8-Hi all the way!

What advice would you give someone thinking about art as a career? Really dive deep within yourself and make sure you love doing it first. Then decide if you’re willing to make the full commitment. Consider it a lifetime investment and learn to trust and believe in yourself against all odds. Be ready and willing to take big risks at any given moment. Always be prepared to take criticism of all sorts, good or bad. Know that a career in art takes allot of time, allot of hard work, and a 100% commitment and belief in yourself. Be willing to network and expose yourself to the art world. Explore as many galleries/museums as possible. Always do your absolute best work, put everything you have into it, experiment, take chances, and never give up. Celebrate every success no matter how big or small and eventually if you work hard enough and you believe in yourself, you will be able to achieve your goals. Anything is possible.

What are you looking forward to the rest of this year and beginning of next? For the remainder of 2017 I’ll be working on large scale works in color on paper and canvas. I’m going camping soon with my family in Joshua Tree where I hope to discover some fresh insight and inspiration. I’ll be showing new work at Spoke Art NYC in March 2018 for a really amazing group show. I have a few other things lined up but thats about it for now.

Who is an artist you’d like to see on Art School one day? Lala Abaddon !

Follow Hydeon: Instagram  |  Vimeo  |  Website

[existentialkendall-blog]

Sharpie Soulmates (Soulmate AU)

Pairing: Kickthestickz Wordcount: 2.3k Rating: bad language, but nothing to cry about

Request/Prompt: Whatever you write on yourself appears on your soulmate but disappears from your skin. Pj is always covered in horrible pick up lines and crudely drawn dicks. While Chris is covered in doodles and gets an occasional 'fuck you' or 'you're a dick' on himself from pj. Eventually they meet when Chris writes 'I have a small dick' on his forehead and sees pj.

A/N: Request a fic here, click a like down there. This isn’t youtube people, you guys aren’t stupid enough to need to be told what to do

At first, PJ doesn't notice the harsh black lines on his skin. Usually flecks of paint adorn his skin, and consumed with work, he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about himself. It's always the next idea, the following project, the bigger picture. When it first happens he doesn't see it until it's almost faded. On his right ankle, the small crude pen drawing of a dick, moving whenever he flexed his foot. It's repulsive, and for the first few seconds he's confused. Then he grabs the closest sharpie, and traces the image hoping it will go away. Since it's on his skin, a replica over the top might send the drawing back to it's owner. It doesn't, and now he's marred someone else with pornography. He throws the pen down in frustration and licks his finger, rubbing at the spot. It doesn't do anything. When he's in the shower, some 8 minutes later, he has an epiphany of sorts. He's just made contact with his soulmate, and the first interaction they had was matching ankle dicks. PJ groans, head falling back against the shower wall in annoyance.

___

It's strange, but paint doesn't transfer or leave his skin. It's only pen, ink. So when he's painting a cardboard box white, because he found a stash of the boxes yesterday, he's almost disappointed that he can't stay clean. "Is this for a new video?" Jamie asks, bent over his shoulder and watching the paint transform the conventional brown to a clinical white. Could be an office, a space station, a hospital. Most of the time he sticks with the brown, but for some reason he was in the mood for painting a calming white. PJ nods, still thinking about a video idea, "Yeah. I've got something in mind." "Cool, let me know when you've figured everything out," PJ nods again, "Also... What the hell is that?" Alert due to the shift in Jamie's voice, he turns and looks at his friend confused, then his eyes trail down and he sees it. 'Stop, drop, and roll, baby. You are on fire' Written on his arm in chicken scratch font, thick because it'd been gone over several times with the pen. "I..." He trails off, "I. I think that is my soulmate."Jamie pats him on the back in congratulations. "Well done."As soon as Jamie's retreating back leaves the room PJ scribbles on his arm 'You're a real dick' It doesn't take long for the message to receive a reply, and when it does PJ's irritated groan is possibly louder than yesterdays. 'I do have a real dick! Did you like the preview I sent you yesterday? Judging from your eager response I'd say yes' He bites his lip while writing, lower down then before so the words flow like a conversation on the other persons skin, smiling because even though the person on the other end is annoying the crap out of him, his soulmate is a boy. A man. He's never been with a guy before, and it's exciting yet nerve wracking to know he will be. 'Oh so that was a scale copy? I'm so sorry that you didn't grow during puberty like the rest of us' PJ reads the next piece of writing, grinning even more, then goes back to painting. When Sophie asks him later why he has 'YOU HAVE A BIG COCK???' taking up three quarters of his forearm, he flushes a pretty pink and laughs awkwardly.

___

On the second day he nervously asks 'What's your name?' The pen flips restlessly in his hand, patting against his black jeaned thigh until the name appears on his other arm, because as PJ quickly learnt, the love of his eternity is left handed. 'Chris' Huh. Chris. With the pad of his index finger, he traces each letter tentatively. When he reaches the end he repeats the motion, hovering over the capital C that seems so much more magnetic than the other letters. 'And yours' PJ's eyes soften and his mouth turns up at the corners. Yours. His. Mine. And then he understands the question and uses his green fine liner to trace 'PJ' adding several layers of ink so it's bold and bright and him.

___

The problem is, PJ's a doodler. One trait that's been fluid since he was a child is that he loves to doodle. Especially on his skin. In fact, some of his best drawings were conceived that way during school; too tired to care about the subjects and too unprepared to bring extra paper. Skin was there for him when paper was not. He couldn't kick the habit when he entered University, and he sure as hell can't kick it now when he's a year in. Frequently he finds himself sitting with a pack of felt tipped Crayolas, or no name fineliners, drawing small, and large, designs on his left arm. For the past week it's been no different. What's annoying is he liked seeing the efforts of his creative process on his arm, wearing it like a tattoo, a badge of honour. But it disappears quickly, and he has to start again. Chris leaves him a critique one day running across the centre of his wrist. 'You're an incredible artist' It takes PJ by surprise. He's used to waking up and finding thickly inked penises on various locations on his body, or cheesy chat up lines that have PJ rolling his eyes but smiling fondly. Several of his favourites include; 'There are a lot of fish in the sea, but you’re the only one I’d like to mount' 'Oh no, I’m choking! I need mouth to mouth, quick!' 'I’m on top of things. Would you like to be one of them?' Needless to say, every written sentence and poorly thought out line, no matter how disturbing or rude, is both irritating and endearing.

___

That is, until the guy buys a six pack of sharpies. Beforehand it was ballpoint pens, stuff he was able to wash off easily. Not now. When he steps into the shower one morning, eyes blearily searching for the shampoo to wash the sleep out of his frenzied hair, he thinks everything is fine. There aren't any markings, and to be honest, that's a relief because they're a bitch to wash off every morning. It's when he's out of the shower and in front of the mirror, towelling down to get rid of the individual water droplets that trail down his chest, that he catches the black in the corner of his eye. 'My hand belongs here' PJ's jaw drops and he's stuck still for a few fleeting seconds. "What the fuck." It's on his neck. Not on a small scale, but like the Joker's writing, jagged and uneven. Backwards in the mirror, but PJ has magicked up enough mirror demons to read reversed. Almost blinded by rage and incredulousness, he's about to charge out of his tiny bathroom and write something way more offensive on his own body for Chris to have scar his skin for the days it takes for Sharpie to wash off. But then he spots 'Wanna go for a test drive?' on his hipbone as he's turning to leave. And then, 'Insert finger here' complete with an arrow pointing down to his asshole. It's almost illegible, how he managed to contort his body enough to scribble it on is beyond him. Amazed at Chris's audacity and carelessness he dashes out to his desk and plucks a bright blue permanent marker up. As he's writing a long list of complaints on his leg, and then rising up to his chest, he feels the similarities to writing film reviews on IMBd or letters of complaint that his parents used to do. Except, this is to the guy he's destined to be with, and he knows the complaining won't do jack shit to change his behaviour. ___

It's relatively peaceful for a while. PJ it still littered with pick up lines daily, the 'My bedroom has an interesting ceiling, I could take you on a guided tour' and the 'When are you expected back at Heaven?', and PJ still absently doodles on the curve of his wrist and palm of his hand, forgetting that Chris will see it until it's already sent. During this time he's been uploading more to YouTube. It's still in it's early stages, but he's grateful for the site because he's getting much more experience. Due to work, and YouTube, and constant creating, he hasn't really thought about meeting Chris. Although they're talked (if you can call it that) every day, they haven't discussed personal details, or their future together. Because if they're soulmates, they have to be together, there's no way they can be with anyone else.

___

PJ wakes up stupidly early, the sun hasn't fully risen yet and the sky is a dusty grey, illuminated by yellowing streetlights. He forces himself to get up, and leave the house before 6:00am. The train to London leaves at 7:00am, and he wants to get coffee from the station before the journey. He pulls on his favourite green sleeved t-shirt slowly, bones cracking at the movements, and when he slides his socks on the fading purple dick on the base of his foot makes his smirk. Fully dressed and he's in the bathroom, tiredly dragging a toothbrush and staring at the sink with half closed eyes. He's out for the whole day, all four of his 'team' are. It's both research for a short film they're making for his Uni course, and a golden opportunity to meet with some sponsors that might fund his next big personal project. Until. "FUCK!" PJ yells, toothbrush falling from his open hands and eyes wide. "No! No, no, no," He wets a flannel and starts rubbing at his forehead, shaking with anxious frustration. The pen won't come off. 'I've got a small dick' is going to be permanently tattooed on his face in all the colours of the rainbow for the entire day. He adds soap and tries again, heart pounding uncomfortably. He can't meet sponsors with that filth tainting him. "Chris, you fucking asshole, I'm going to fucking kill you," PJ mutters, giving up, leaving his skin a red mess. He shoves a beanie on, and leaves the house with a scowl firmly fixed onto his face. His travelling companions don't say a word, even though they heard his angry explosion of profanities earlier. They get to London and shoot some footage in Hyde Park, brown boots hitting grey pavement as the scenery begins to change and the crowds grow thicker. He's actually forgotten that he's mad at Chris, too busy laughing at the stupid faces his friends are pulling, and running along the grass for various nature sequences. After a few hours they stop, and decide to head to a café. It's a warm spring day, and he peels off his beanie to stop his head from overheating. From where he's stood in the queue, he can see his friends take the leather sofas at the end of the shop, claiming it for their group only. One persons order is fulfilled, one step forward, the queue gets smaller. He can feel his fringe sticking to his forehead and he wipes it aside, grimacing at the damp strands that he knows will be several shades darker then the rest of his hair. At first, he doesn't notice the guy staring at him next to the floor to ceiling windows. He's wearing a baby blue striped t-shirt, coupled with raised eyebrows and messy hair. On the high table next to him is an abandoned coffee, keeping warm under the beating sun from outside. He's still there when they leave, PJ's hat clutched between his fingers because it's too freakin hot to put it back on. His camera bag is slouched across his body, and he's grinning at something Sophie says, when a hand clamps his shoulder and he turns around. The stranger that had been watching him is gaping open mouthed at PJ's forehead. That's when he remembers what Chris wrote, and he's going to explain, he swears he is, but the guy is hot. His floppy brown hair is messy above green flecked hazel eyes, and his mouth is practically begging to be... put to use. "I can explain," He finally breathes out, making an effort to stop staring at the stranger. The guy quirks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, as if to say go ahead, I've got all day. "See, this thing, y'know-""Let me stop you right there," He smirks, interrupting PJ's garbled rambling. From his pocket he pulls out a thin marker and in sloped, disjointed text, writes something on his palm. Then he takes PJ's slender wrist in his hand, circling it with his fingers, and turns it around, his thumb drifting idly down his wrist and resting over PJ's pulse point.

you're PJ what's on your forehead is a work of art just like your face I'm fated to love you

"Do I get a hello kiss or do you not put out on the first date?" Chris smiles wide and his other hand, the one not sliding into his own palm and curling around his fingers so they entwine, is reaching around his waist. PJ blushes and manages a "Public," Before slipping out of his grasp. "Oh c'mon honey, it's gonna happen sometime," Chris whines, high pitched and strung out. PJ shakes his head, and walks away from Chris. He follows him, long legs catching up quickly. He throws an arm around PJ's shoulders casually and leans down, pressing a wet open mouthed kiss on the side of his cheek. "You and me Peej, we're gonna fuck away the world." PJ rolls his eyes, brain automatically lending the words dick, and you're a. But he rejects his instinct and goes for a muttered "You should feel so lucky." "Oh I will. Later." It's natural, seamless, right. Chris is his. He is Chris's.

Part 2